The Cuckoo and the Linden Tree
by Maireh
Summary: "Truths are often changed, twisted by the tongues of time, into something of a stranger to its actualities. Some, however, are preserved and written down, but the hands that write often change a word or a fact or two, shifting the story, spinning in their own way and after a time untruths become our history." -A tale of the Menoa Tree.


_The Cuckoo and the Linden Tree_

Truths are often changed, twisted by the tongues of time, into something of a stranger to its actualities. Some, however, are preserved and written down, but the hands that write it often change a word or a fact, or two. Thus shifting the story, spinning in their own way and after a time untruths become our history.

Alas! Great stories are told by great defamations.

And such is the fate of our tale.

It began near an end and a beginning, a spring turning in the years that have long passed. Then, in that time so long ago, the morning brought with it many voices in the height of a song. Then a people would sing forth the Tree of Light, and rejoice for all in the world was not dark. The people would sing of how the old year has passed; now a thing of memory and dream, of regret and loss and joy, of birth and death, of hope realized and hope disappointed.

Many of these spring turns have passed for a number of these people, and some now had young of their own. Those small ones' sung in high and bright voices, as they pulled and swung from their parent's arms, eager as all children are for the festivities that have yet to come- the stories and games, and the dancing and music. Yet, others were younger and stood in the arms of their newly claimed lovers, watching in joy as their inhuman song grew into light in the center of their gathering, putting forth branches and broad silver leaves. Bursting forth from the leaves were many tiny golden buds, eager to bloom wide into luminous flowers of pure light. As the tree grew, the petals withered and vanished, releasing a delicate fragrance, and where the flowers had been swelled marvelous fruits; great golden orbs so bright they threw shadows into the air. But all too soon the song ended, and the light faded and the people left the field, to join the merrymaking that was soon on its way.

Some, however, no longer joined the jollity. After so many years it so rarely changed, and so why do the same as they did every year over? Would another year not come for them? Perhaps it seemed that the warmth of the past became cold and hard, and no longer could they cope with the hurts of lose and the past: a woman for example in her late years, her once bright hair paled and stringy, whose name has been long forgotten. The memory of her later died long ago after the last of her kin passed of this world- but this does not matter, what matters is the event she once took part in.

It was on a day like this, a day of the renewing year, oh so many years ago. Then lived the legend of a shining woman. Tales were told of her by those who admired for her beauty and the grace of her songs of life. Many said she had a voice alike the starlight, shining and bright, as if it were silent and of passion, and forms and colors. But these were just tales, and back then the shining woman did not exist expect in the mind of the ailed and the inebriated. But the older woman knew the truth; that she was real. She knew of her passion and hurt, how she had seemed to long given up on love, and more importantly how she was not quite mortal.

When the woman had met the woman of light, she had been but a youth barely into her womanhood, grieving under a tree shadowed by heart-shaped leaves, and was like all of those, who met the woman, was astounded by her beauty. She appeared as teardrop from the moon: alike the whitest samite was her skin, and her hair was seafoam glistening softly, her eyes golden and bright and lovely. In wonderment the girl fell silent.

The woman turned to the child, her hair stirring in a wind which the girl did not feel. "Are you dying, my child?" the woman asked with a scowl.

The child tried to speak but found she could not make a sound anything beyond a croak. She just shook her head, swallowing. No, she was not dying.

"I think you did not mean to wake me." The woman frowned, her head to one side. "Yet you have, though very few have in many years. I do not enjoy being awoken, child, thus it is a feat if one does so. I congratulate you. What is your name?"

The child sniffled and wiped the fresh tear that fell down her face away. "I am called Reseda," the child said, sniffling once more. "What do you mean that I called you? Where were you sleeping? I did not see you come from anywhere."

The woman did not answer but instead sighed. "Should you not be with your people, singing forth their tree to light?" the woman asked, waving away her question.

Reseda blushed and looked away to hide her face. "Why should I?" she mumbled. "All they ever do is sing and talk of the Light and the Dark, but never do they warn you of love and of sickness and the death that comes from it. Let them sing, I say, it means nothing to me."

"Ah, yet, my dear child, there is no remedy for love or grief," she said. "And you mortals die like reeds, and then within the world's circle is only absence. Death persists beyond all boundaries. The question is if you choose to die, at this time. You still have many days to live, yet if you choose death now, I will not stop you. I know what it is like to desire death and to be refused it."

For the barest moment, Reseda hesitated. It would be so easy to die after him, to renounce all her struggles and suffering, to escape the terrible grief that racked her spirit. But something inside her refused death; it would come sooner or later but something inside her cried: _not now!_ Seeking death now after watching him whither from this world, would do his memory no good. "No, I do not desire death," Reseda said in the slowest of voices.

"Despair not, my child," the shining woman said. "Your heart will heal, as all you mortals' do, and perhaps someday you shall love anew. Suffering is a meaningless thing, is it not? Unless it teaches you is how not to suffer again, how to find the light in the dark." She feel silent as a cuckoo twittered above. "Oh yes, I suppose so. It seems now, sweet child, that it is time for me to go."

Reseda startled and stood up. "Go? Go where?" she asked. "I did not even see you come."

"Where I must," she said. "Do not look so grim, you silly girl, all will be well."

And then the woman turned and the child blinked, only to find that the woman had disappeared into a golden mist blossoming around the tree. Reseda looked all around the linden tree, and walked right through the mist, touching the hard bark of the linden tree. Standing in the mist, she felt a golden glow course through her body, healing her as if she had just lay down into a bed of the softest feathers, and her grief did not feel quite so sharp. But still she looked, combed through all the bushes, followed all the footprints in the area, and still she found nothing. She soon gave up, and returned home, yet she never forgot the strange shining woman she saw, and often told the tale. Eventually, after a time, she found love once more, as the shining woman had told her she would, and bore many children. She grew in her age, and soon passed into the other life, but the tale did not.

The woman was given a name, after the linden tree she was seen under, and the tale often changed before it was settled so many lifetimes later:

'Linnëa was a spirit who roamed the land, often in the form of a bird but at times she was a woman, and the girl had just happened to see her. Seeing the saddened girl the spirit chose to comfort her.'

'No, no, no! She was an ancient, one of those Grey Folks. The very last of her people, roaming the forest aimlessly though the forest before her death. She had heard from a spirit about the sickness and had come to guide a young girl maddened by the loss of her beloved.'

'But, the Grey Folk did not look like them, so surely she was an elf. Young and beautiful. She must have been walking the forest during the festival and had seen a young girl in distress, and decided to comfort her in her lose, before disappearing around the tree.'

'Oh, no, this Linnëa was no kind soul. She must have killed the girl's lover out of jealously, even tried to get at the girl but failed. Surely Linnëa ran afterwards, and was never seen again.'

'Yes, but that is not quite the tale. You see, Linnëa was an older elf, back when we could still age, who sung to the plants and tree to make them grow. When someday a young woman with her mate crossed her path. They were lost, you see, and asked the woman for help. Linnëa choose to help them but found that she had fallen in love with the young woman's mate. In her madness of love she sang the young woman into the tree, so to make the younger woman's mate her own, but alas, that did not work and the young woman's mate attacked her, forcing her to kill him before killing herself.'

'Oh, do not be ridiculous! Linnëa was already in love with the young man before the young woman was. The young man was unfaithful and fell in love with the young woman. Linnëa killed them both in her anger, stabbed them even, and then sang herself into the Menoa Tree out of her own despair.'

Yes, this surely must be the truth of the tale.

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_________________________________________________________________________I do not own The Inheritance Cycle.  
__A/n: This is what happens when I read the Pellinor series over again- and so some ideas where picked up by the author these (The Light and The Dark, and the Tree of Light) I do not take credit for. It gives me ideas, which are always dangerous. So this is about how time changes tales, how people can look at something and twist it into something else- how practices of a race changes. This was just written for the fun of it. I did research about linden trees before I wrote this, you don't have to read this it's just some information I found interesting and tried to include: Linnea means "Lime Tree," or "Linden Tree". I found a myth about a goddess whose symbol is a cuckoo, the cuckoo is a symbol of deep sorrow- the habitat of the goddess and the cuckoo is a linden tree. The goddess, Laima, is the protector of human life. Cuckoo decides about human existence and death, she decides how long one would live. The linden tree is a tree (quote)''whose spirit can teach healing and the ability to see the beauty beyond outer surfaces. The spirit of the mystic, the poet, the dreamer, and the child-all of whom have the ability to see beyond appearances.''(...) "In Europe, there has been a close association between the cuckoo and the linden tree. The spirit of the linden will often take the form of a cuckoo to leave the tree itself, and the cuckoo has long been the source of great supersition and inspiration. The cuckoo is often the herald of spring, the time of rebirth. In parts of Europe, it was also the herald of death and marriage, all of which are symbolic of great transformation. The linden tree spirit holds the knowledge to life, death and transformation - and the true beauty and sweetness in those processes, no matter what form they take for the individual..." (...) "She [the linden spirit] teaches that suffering is only good for the soul if it teaches us how not to suffer again..." I don't remember what websites I found this info off of. If you could, please, tell me what you think. I hope you all enjoyed this._


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